Device of Flight
by DanielleH
Summary: Amnesia. That was the first problem. Then there were the wings. Bigger problem. Who's to blame? Sherlock and John race to get to the bottom of it all before someone else gets hurt. Wing!lock. Multi-chaptered. Rated T for some language, and violence.
1. Chapter 1: Crime

**Authors Note: I haven't finished writing the entire story yet, but I'll post the next chapter soon. I have about four or five chapters prepared. Comments are love! :)  
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* * *

CHAPTER 1: Crime

"The woman had, of course, her perfume on at the time of the murder. I smelled it first when I walked into the house. The odor was absolutely repugnant and I'm surprised nobody else picked it up."

The woman folded her hands across her chest.

"You think I'm the murderer just because I wear perfume? I've been here multiple times before then" she spat.

His head snapped towards her.

"Obviously. It seems you have quite a habit for appearing in bedrooms when you make a profit."

John flicked his eyes up at him. "Sherlock."

The consulting detective nodded nonchalantly and continued.

"Yes, and then there's the obvious sign from her hands. There were many scratch cards displayed upon the living room table, and she has yet to clean her hands from the abrasions" he gestured. "That would place her as the one woman in the flat during the crime."

She quickly concealed her hands beneath her sweater. Sherlock grinned.

"The night of the murder it was also raining. I noticed that her coat was damp and slightly smudged with mud." Everyone in the room looked towards the coat hangar. Sure enough, the coat that he had described was indeed, dirty.

"But that wasn't enough evidence to call you a criminal. No, I needed something else, something more accusing." He grinned. "A motive. My investigation eventually led me to look into your employment records."

Her face became pale.

"Of course, your job back then was quite significant. Accounting. Quite boring if you ask me, but you made it that much more interesting. You transfered the money from the employers' paycheck to _your_ account. Of course, your solution was switching the money with another customer. Your house was behind it's payment, and you _desperately_ needed the money. At first, you felt terrible. But after a few more times, it became a normal daily basis. You bought a few nice cars, a new house, and everything was beautiful." He paused.

"Well?" Anderson asked, his hair on end.

"George Macintosh."

John raised an eyebrow.

He continued. "One day he walked past and saw you transferring the money. He immediately ordered you to turn stop the scheme or he would go to the authorities. But no, you wouldn't have any of it. You couldn't be locked up. Not now. Not ever. And so you started a 'romantic relationship' with the man. You 'stole his heart.' He led you into his flat and then you murdered him."

Her mouth was ajar. "That's...That's not true," she stammered. "You can't prove any of this!"

"Oh, but I can." Sherlock rummaged around in his trench coat until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out the thumb drive.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, reaching for it. Sherlock gladly gave it to him.

"It holds all the logs and information for each and every transfer that she had activated. It's...how you could say...a backup. I'm sure you can take a look for yourself."

"No need." Lestrade gave the thumb drive to Anderson. "Put that in evidence." He grasped the woman's arm and handcuffed her. "I place you under arrest for the murder of George Macintosh. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law..."

The consulting detective and the doctor traversed outside the building. John turned towards Sherlock.

"You ever going to tell me how you figured it out?"

Sherlock grinned.

"It was quite simple, really. I realized she was hiding something, so I returned back to her flat. I discovered the thumb drive under her dresser and there seemed to be a few floorboards loose. Under it was the thumb drive. As I said, any normal person could have figured it out, given a bit more time."

John stopped walking.

"You know what I mean."

He nodded. "Right, then."

They continued walking down the street in silence. John was the first to break it.

"What now?"

"I suppose we could head back to the flat, but that would be boring. No new cases have arrived, and I don't feel like putting holes in the wall again."

John stopped in his tracks. "Wha-Again?"

Sherlock did nothing but clear his throat.

The doctor pinched his nose and did not reply. They both walked on in silence again until John's stomach rumbled. Sherlock chuckled.

"Dinner?" he asked.

"Starving."

* * *

"What'dya say old chap? Wanna get to know eachother?", asked a man in a suit. He was middle-aged, short-cropped black hair, and an amazingly rancid breath. He clapped John on the back while holding his drink in the other. He was a masculine man, who had quite an odor.

Sherlock pretended not to notice and turned the other way, holding back a smile.

"Uh, no thanks." John tried to escape him, but the man and his muscles squashed him between his chest and arm. His revolting breath surrounded the doctor and John gagged.

John had insisted when they arrived at the restaurant that he didn't want to drink. Only to fill his stomach. Sherlock wasn't much of an alcoholic, but the idea of celebrating seemed nice. However, John's situation right now proved to be much more amusing.

"Aw, come on, laddie! It'll be fun! I'll even show you the moves!" the stranger shouted. Sherlock choked on his drink, failing to hold back a chuckle.

"Sir, I would like to inform you that your breath is absolutely detestable." John could even feel his eyes burning. The man laughed and 'accidentally' sloshed some of his drink onto the doctors shirt.

"Oh, I know. Absolutely rotten, isn't it?" The man smiled, teeth showing. _They_ were rotten as well. John's lip curled.

The man sniffled. "But you know, how many times do I have to tell ye? I don't wanna be in the business anymore. Hybrization" he slurred. "DNA. It's all rubbish. All of it. Not once piece of it is real. No sir. Not anymore." He let John out of his grasp and started rubbing his eyes. The doctor breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be free from his vise.

The man burst into tears. John froze stiff. He kept his head motionless and his eyes wandered towards Sherlock for support. The consulting detective just sat there and grinned. There was a loud crash, and John looked back to his side. The man was sprawled across the floor and drool began to slowly dribble down his cheek.

"Seems like he's had too much to drink" chuckled Sherlock.

"No shit, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes. "You know, it wouldn't hurt to help me, your only friend in the world, once in a while."

He paused. "But it looked like you two were having fun."

John grumbled something unintelligible and rolled his eyes. He grabbed his jacket. "Let's get out of here." John harbored a grin of his own.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door to the flat with John following close behind. They had managed to return after midnight, and John was famished. And, of course, the great Sherlock Holmes was not.

"Goin'tobed" John slurred, not even turning to face Sherlock. He tossed his jacket onto the chair. Sherlock replied, "Going out."

John stopped in his tracks and turned back around. "This late?"

Sherlock shrugged. He seemed bored.

John rolled his eyes and clunked onwards to his room. He figured that if Sherlock wanted to something, then he wasn't the man to stop him. Besides, he was too tired to care at this point.

The doctor trudged into his room, his eyes only halfway open. He took a half a moment to himself and stretched. He felt his limbs expand and he grinned. Better. The doctor closed the door, and securely locked it. Never can be too sure considering where and how they both lived.

John flipped the light switch on. His eyes instantly expressed a man in a black suit and a blue tie, sitting on the edge of his bed. He was wearing a full black mask save for the eyes, which were visible. A syringe was held in his gloved-hand, full of some strange green liquid.

John quickly sprinted forward, and his fist contacted the man's face with speed. The syringe dropped to the floor with a soft click. Another punch was administered to the intruder and he quickly retaliated with a fist. It targeted John's torso and caused him to double over in pain. He clutched it for dear life and tried to remember how to breathe. From the corner of his eye, John could see the man bending over and reaching for the syringe. He quickly returned and John attempted to prepare himself but he was too late. By the time John had stood back up, the syringe pierced his neck. His body hit the ground with a loud thud.

* * *

John woke up to the familiar ceiling of his room. Looking to the clock at his side, he saw that it was 9:02. Good, he didn't sleep in _too_ late.

Looking back up, he observed the patterns on the ceiling. During his long stay here, he had managed to remember every mold, design, and object in the room. He was like a mini-Sherlock. Staying with such a man does that to you.

The doctor leaned up and a short groan escaped him. His abdomen felt like a freight train had run through it. Lifting his shirt up, he saw that his belly was horribly bruised. Purple and red colors tinted his torso. How the hell...

An uncertain hand reached up to rub his neck. Something happened last night. But for the life of him he couldn't remember. He only remembered coming back here and then...And then...

His brows furrowed. And then nothing. Odd. He frowned. He couldn't remember a thing after they got back. To be honest, it turned out to be pretty late when they arrived home.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He would have to worry about it later. John carefully stood up from the bed, dressed, and shuffled downstairs towards the living room.

Sherlock, always up and around by seven in the morning, sat in his chair beside the fireplace. A laptop was placed upon his lap whilst an ignored cup of tea was beside him. His fingers fled across the keyboard.

"Morning" Sherlock announced without looking up. John grunted and trudged into the kitchen. Grabbing a cup, he fashioned his own cup of tea. Finished, he shambled towards his seat. Another grunt escaped him when he sat down. Ignoring his abdomen, he snatched the newspaper and began reading.

Sherlock saw all of this with a watchful eye. He had noticed that something was off about John. It was obvious of course by his walking pace, his hair (which had been disheveled quite a bit more than usual), and it was also the fact that he was in pain when he seated himself. Obviously.

"You too?"

John turned a page. "Me too what?" His eyes continued scanning over the paper.

Sherlock paused for a moment. He closed the laptop and set it to the side. His hands moved in front of his face in a sort of prayer. All the while, his eyes were placed on John. "Do you remember?"

John stopped reading. The paper was still set in front of him as it blocked his view from Sherlock. "Remember what?"

Sherlock observed as John gripped the newspaper a bit tighter as well as the single tap of his foot upon the floor. And Sherlock knew. He knew that John hadn't remembered. The really strange thing was, he didn't remember at all either.

The consulting detective closed his eyes for a moment and contemplated.

This morning, he had woken to the blaring sound of a siren. He quickly discovered that he was in the familiar flat named 221b. The noise that had woke him was the authorities on a chase of some kind of which he did not care for. Sitting up, he wondered what had occurred the night before.

His mind palace had told him that it was late last night, and that he went back out for something...His feet led him down the stairs and nothing else could be remembered. Nothing at all. Sherlock's mind always records and files information. Everything of importance, that is. But why didn't he place anything from last night? Obviously something had transpired, but he had no memory of it whatsoever.

He cocked his head to the side, confused. Immediately following, he felt a sort of slight pain emanating from his neck. This led him towards the bathroom.

It was barely noticeable, but seeing as Sherlock noticed everything, he observed. Looking in the mirror (quite early in the morning) he appeared to have quite strange bruising on his neck. It was as if someone had choked him. On the right side, he found a that a small needle had pieced it. Judging by the size of the fissure, which was quite large, the syringe would have had to be practically stabbed into his neck. So there would have been a struggle. But he didn't remember.

Obviously they did administer something in his blood stream. Why would they go to all this trouble not to? The problem was, he had no idea _what_ was put in his body. He desperately wanted to discover what it was, but he hadn't the time go to the lab. He wished to see if John was the same. Which was true.

Of course, Sherlock had wondered if someone had broken into the flat. Earlier he had attempted to ask Mrs. Hudson if anyone had been in before him, but she was out on vacation. For a week it would seem. "Need some time for myself" is what she had said. Something about the husband was his guess.

And so, he started the long process and began to inspect the apartment to confirm that nothing had been moved or altered. He discovered that no one had messed with the front door. The lock hadn't been tampered with. To be sure, Sherlock had checked it twice. Once, when they arrived back at the flat last night, and once again in the morning. He then proceeded to inspect the windows. In a case long ago (which John had named The Blind Banker in that fancy blog of his), he had learned that any fit, agile human being could easily a crawl up building and enter through the window. Thankfully, they had not been interfered with either.

His eyes then proceeded to scan over the entire room. The same result occurred: Nothing was different. All was the same, and not a thing had shifted. To the naked eye, that is.

Dust was the following concept he investigated. "Dust is eloquent" as one would say. If there did not appear to be any dust on an object ( in which he _specifically_ knew that had not been messed around with) then the flat had an intruder.

It took him about twenty minutes to do the entire living room. He had to be absolutely sure, of course. After that, he roamed into the kitchen, and eventually finished the entire flat. It had consumed quite a lot of time. A few hours, to be precise. However, the result was still the same. Nothing had been touched.

There was also still a very strong possibility that a man (or woman, you can never be too sure) broke into the flat. They would have to be quite intelligent as to make sure not to bump into anything, considering that there was practically everything thrown about the flat (thanks to Sherlock Holmes), as well as to clean up their mess. No dust, no fuss.

Also, this person(s) would have to have been in their apartment at least once or twice. However, this would obviously not cut down the suspects. Hundreds of people had been in his flat, not including the large amount of enemies he had manage to acquire during his time as a consulting detective as well as multiple clients for his past cases. So it have could been anyone.

And don't forget the chance that his flat mightn't of been broken into in the first place. Based on the facts he had (which was easily pointing towards this point), it was quite possible.

Yes, he was assaulted. Yes, he had proof. The bruising on his neck said as much. The question was, where was he attacked? This is what perplexed him. He had no evidence to help point him in the right direction.

Even if he did, it wouldn't matter because _he did not remember_. And neither did John. So around he went in circles.

"Hm" was all Sherlock said.

John became motionless despite the newspaper covering his face. "What?" he asked, carefully.

"Hm?" His eyes opened and his gaze returned to John.

John sighed and flipped the top half of his newspaper down. "You ask me if I remember, you see that I don't, and then all you say is _hm_?" he mocked. "Are you going to tell me what happened or not? Or am I going to have to figure it out for my own damn bloody-well self?" John paused. His nostrils flared and he slammed the newspaper down on the armchair. "Is this another one of your bloody experiments?" he shouted.

Sherlock frowned. "Experiments? Where did you get that from, and why are you so upset?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm not upset" he exaggerated.

Sherlock did not seem to understand. He sat there, confused as ever.

"Your facial expressions prove otherwise, John." He paused for a moment, seeing that John was not responding. John's head was turned to the side, possibly trying to hold a lid on his anger. _Was it_ anger?

"I don't understand" Sherlock declared.

John rolled his eyes. How unbelievable.

Sherlock asked again, "Why are you upset?"

"Because every time you use me as your _subject_ for your _experiments _it always ends up with either me not remembering anything or me having to hold a piece of string while you set it on fire!" he spat.

Sherlock immediately responded, "I told you that would never happen again, John. After you created a riot, I simply discontinued my expeditions. I have never done such an experiment on you since. Neither have I done one for which you described previously since. You must stop assuming these things because it's actually quite irritating. Especially when your assumptions are false." Sherlock kept his eyes fixed upon John. That was as close to an insult that Sherlock would convey. To John, at least.

John paused for a moment. After a short time, he leaned forward in his chair. "So, you don't know either?"

"I don't know what?" he snapped.

"You don't _remember_?"

"Obviously" he responded quite quickly.

"Then..." John blinked. "What did ha-"

"I don't know" he growled.

The one thing that Sherlock did not like was the unknown. It tore at him, it ate him, it created nightmares, the ones that only Sherlock could have. The mysterious unseen was defintely not something that he favored.

John, the only man who _could_ see this, silently nodded and leaned back.

Only a moment passed before Sherlock imposed: "Come along, John." Sherlock stood up, snatched his trench coat from the hangar and headed out the door.

John bent to his will and raced after the man.


	2. Chapter 2: Vigilant

**Author's Note: So here's the next chapter. If you think this one is boring, just wait. It'll get much more interesting later on :)**

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CHAPTER 2: Vigilant

A slender figure bent over a microscope. His fingers twisted the knob back and forth, focusing the lens. After only a few moments, his attention switched over to the paper by his side. His pen raced across the paper and scribbled a few notes. He frowned.

Upon investigating, he had taken a small portion of blood from his arm. He later proceeded to place an even smaller portion upon the slide of which he was studying at the moment. But now it seemed that the operation was useless.

There was nothing that was different, save for his grotesque nose that had been running this morning. He was quite healthy according to his studies. Nothing had changed. But there should have been something different. Anything. Something _did_ happen last night he was _sure_ of it. But what? What was put into his system?

During the short ride in the cab, Sherlock took a rather quick glance at John's neck. Sure enough, it looked similar, if not _exactly_, like the one he had: A tiny fissure where a syringe had been stabbed.

Eventually, he shared his information that he had gathered thus far. The doctor did the same. He described the bruising on his torso, and they made a quick deduction: They were _both _attacked and they were _both_ targeted for a reason.

However, this told them nothing. They had no leads because they had no idea who was behind it. Sherlock had many enemies, even those whom he hadn't even met. So yet again, their investigation was foiled. For the moment, anyway.

John sat on the opposite side of the table, watching Sherlock as he worked. The man had only been here for an hour and already his nose was running. Another point was that he was truly exhausted. He yawned.

John wanted to find out what occurred last night. Honestly, he did. But something else was bugging him. His stomach had begun to rumble.

John slid a hand over his face and lifted himself from the seat. "Sherlock, I'll be back in half an hour" he sighed.

The other man halted his work and frowned. His eyes were met with John's. "Why?"

"It's noon and I haven't eaten anything all day. I'm not like you" he argued. He received a grunt in response. John shuffled over to the tissue box on the counter and grabbed a few. He started to blow his nose.

Sherlock observed John's actions and froze. "Stop." The consulting detective rose out of his chair. "Don't move."

"What? Why?" John asked, his question muffled with the fabric still covering his nose.

Sherlock kept both eyes focused on John and wandered towards him. "I seem to be ill since the drive here. You appear to be the same. That can't be a coincidence."

John rolled his eyes in disbelief. He wiped the rest of the revolting liquid from his nose and threw it in the garbage much to Sherlock's disapproval. "Yes it can, Sherlock. It's cold outside and we both didn't get to bed until late last night."

Sherlock growled something unintelligible and turned the other way. Of course. Obvious. Why didn't it cross his mind? Most likely a result of exhaustion combined with this bloody cold. Yes, that was it. Had to be.

Another matter that Sherlock loathed was being wrong. It created something of a bad temper.

He returned to his work.

"So...You coming?" John asked.

Not a word was uttered from the other man.

The ex-army doctor rolled his eyes. His feet let him to the door. "That man is such a child" he mumbled under his breath. John didn't mind if Sherlock heard him.

In the lab, Sherlock was deep in his studies. His hands maneuvered in front of his face, in that unique potion of his. His eyes flicked back to the paper. What changed? He figured it must be staring at him right in the face. He growled and snatched a tissue from the counter. He hated being sick.

John decided to walk it off. He didn't care to call for a cab because he figured that a little exercise would do him some good. He pulled his jacket closer to his body and hunched his shoulders. It was quite cold. The man moved his hands into his pockets and quickened his steps. It was useless. Looking up, he saw dark clouds beginning to form. It would rain any moment now. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if it snowed.

"Fantastic" he muttered.

John gave up. Exercise wasn't such a good idea at the moment. He called for a cab. The faster John could get to food, the faster he would be warm. A short cough escaped him.

Sherlock was inside his mind palace. He filed and placed information of what he distinguished so far; Nothing whatsoever. All he knew was that he and John were injected with something. Whether or not it was deadly was out of his knowledge.

Frustrated, the consulting detective slammed his hands on the counter.

"_Why can't I remember_?" he shouted. He leaped out of his seat and began pacing about the lab.

If only John were still here then he would be able to bounce theories and questions off of him. He would be able to brainstorm. In the past cases when John was actually with him, sometimes he would receive answers. Most of the time he wouldn't. His reasoning for this was that John couldn't keep up with his intellectual mind process. John would only scoff at this. Sherlock grinned at the thought. It quickly disappeared.

Focus! Sherlock leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. He talked aloud, imagining John by his side and picking up a few lines from the man: "Okay, what do we know? We can perceive that last night we were injected with something." He struggled. "...Something...nothing?" Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

After that, Sherlock remained silent. He considered that talking aloud wasn't doing anyone any good. It all just made too much noise, and he couldn't think. He closed his eyes and remained this way for a few minutes, reviewing the facts in his mind.

At that point, Molly entered the room. She held a large stack of notes and documents in her arms. Because they were so tall, the papers blocked her view from Sherlock. She hadn't realized Sherlock was in the room until she set them down. Right beside him. The papers created a loud _smack _as they landed on the counter.

Sherlock jumped slightly and his eyes opened as he exited his 'mind palace'. His gaze switched over to her almost accusingly and she blushed deeply.

"Oh-um-so-sorry. I didn't know...um..."

Sherlock did not speak and observed as sheer embarrassment washed over her.

A few more moments of silence passed.

"Well..um..." She pretended to smile but it didn't quite meet her eyes. "I'll just be on my way then."

"No, it's alright. You can stay if you wish" he answered, quite gently.

"But I thought that-"

"It's alright, Molly. I was only analyzing the situation in which John and I are in. But, it as it would appear..." he sighed "...it is pointless. I do not possess enough evidence at my disposal." He sighed and moved his hands in front of his face yet again.

"Oh." Molly didn't dare ask what kind of situation it was. She knew that it would only result in her becoming quite confused, and Sherlock becoming quite annoyed.

Molly looked up at him. She admired him. The curve of his cheeks, the roundness of his lips...

She blushed again and quickly forced her gaze back down upon the ground. _Stop it Molly Hooper_, she told herself. _You've already embarrassed yourself enough_. She frowned. _Always embarrassing myself. My specialty._

"What is it that you are speculating?"

"Hm?" Her head lifted and she found that Sherlock had been watching her.

"What are you thinking about?" he repeated.

"Oh. Um. Work. Getting quite busy dealing with so many dead corpses" she lied, smiling.

Sherlock knew differently. Molly loved her career. However, he did not press for the truth.

There was something about Molly that he liked. She took pleasure in some of the same things that he did: The morgue and the investigations. Well, she didn't enjoy investigating the dead bodies as much as he did, but it was nice to know that she liked her job.

It was also the fact that whenever Sherlock asked for help, Molly was always willing. If Sherlock required some aid for a case, he would go to her. But that was when John was available. If he wasn't there, then she was his next choice without a doubt. This is what had transpired during his "fall" as some people choose to call it.

Beforehand, he only thought her to be one of those "normal, average people who bundle about the city." But she proved him wrong. After the fall, Sherlock's respect for Molly had grown.

Molly figured that she might as well do what she came here to do. It would be difficult with Sherlock here, but it had to be done.

She walked behind the counter and snatched a few folders. She returned back to the other counter and began. Specific papers were filed in multiple folders and the process continued for half an hour.

They both worked alongside each other in silence with Sherlock pondering about the events of the night before and with Molly arranging the papers. It was quite nice, actually.

After around twenty minutes, Molly lifted the gigantic stack of papers that were now organized and set them back down on the other counter.

Her gaze was quickly caught by the trashcan. She leaned in closer. A strange green illuminated light filled the bin. It was...it was glowing. It wasn't the bin specifically, but it was the thing that was inside it.

"What is this?" Molly asked, curious.

She lifted the material from the trash and held it up for Sherlock to examine. Her arm held it far from her body whereas she didn't want to touch it anymore than she was already.

"Hm?" The consulting detective opened his eyes and they flicked towards the object.

Puzzled, he frowned. Was this another one of those things that he wouldn't be able to understand? Another one of those...exaggerated things?

He answered with hesitation. "...A...tissue?"

Molly glared at him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. A thought came to him and he revised his answer. "...John's tissue?"

"I know it's a tissue, Sherlock."

He paused. "Then why did you ask?"

"Because this tissue isn't normal, Sherlock. It's glowing."

Immediately his eyes flicked back to it. "Molly, are you sure you're feeling well?"

She gave him a peculiar look. Her eyes then reverted back to it. A look of shock and bewilderment passed over her face. "But...it was a moment ago..." Molly frowned.

Skeptic, he rose out of his chair and slowly walked towards her. "I can assure you, Molly, that the tissue is not gl-"

"Sherlock, it _was_ glowing only a moment ago! I saw it!" she shouted.

Sherlock took a step back, surprised at her outburst.

"Oh, um...so-sorry..." She shuffled her feet in place. Molly found the floor patterns to be much more interesting and less formidable than the man in front of her.

He shook his head slowly and met her eyes. "There's nothing to apologize for, Molly." His gaze reverted back towards the fabric. "I believe you may have found something."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He gestured towards the tissue. Sherlock knew Molly to be perfectly sane, whereas Molly insisted on assuring him that it was true. It was annoying. Molly handed it over without question.

Sherlock then proceeded to enclose both his hands around it. He had it wrapped in his hands like it was a dove.

Molly made a face. He was holding a used tissue.

The consulting detective looked up at Molly with a hopeful smile. He always enjoyed this. Deducing, solving cases, and all that. It was very entertaining, and it kept him from being bored. It was another thing the great Sherlock Holmes loathed. Boredom. It was tiring, and it made everything else dull. The consulting detective would rather destroy the entire flat inch by inch than to experience it again.

Molly knew this, obviously. She had known the man for several years and she had learned quite a few things about him.

Sherlock returned his gaze towards the object in his hands. He curiously peeked inside and, sure enough, a bright green hue was emanating from the fabric. It was indeed, glowing.

Sherlock chuckled deeply.

"Molly, you are a genius!"

She smiled.

* * *

Heavy rain bombarded the windows and the squeaking of a windshield wiper was heard. Buckets of water fell from the sky and puddles formed along the streets. Folks without umbrellas hustled along, attempting to escape the unrelenting force of the showers.

In the end, John decided that the cafe next to their flat was his best bet. He wasn't craving for anything else, really. Last night they ate (actually _he_ ate because Sherlock _never_ did and that resulted in _him_ being bombarded by drunk moron) at the restaurant in Northumberland. Eating there again wasn't something he desired.

John sat in the cab patiently and watched as the city rolled by. The good thing was that he was warm now. However, the sudden change in temperature had made his nose start to flow again. John kept on sniffling and tried to hold in all the liquid.

Despite his efforts he only received a nasty headache. He raised his arm under his nose. Scooting towards the front of the seat, he poked the driver.

"You have any tissues by chance?"

"Hm? Tissues?"

The snot began to trickle onto his jacket. "Yeah. Tissues" he grumbled.

"Ah, sorry no. Although I have a napkin if you'd like."

"Sure." John would take anything at the moment.

The driver gave him the cloth and John took it appreciatively.

Immediately, John blew his nose into the linen. The dull throbbing pain from his headache began to grow stronger as well as his discomfort.

John groaned and wiped the remaining sludge off his nose as well as from his jacket with a shaky hand.

"Here's some more. Looks like you need 'em more than I do." He tossed a handful of napkins behind his head. He held the used napkin in his hand and the extras were stuffed into his jacket pocket.

"You're lucky I grabbed extras from the restaurant last night." The man in front chuckled. "You wouldn't believe how busy it was. Every table was filled with customers and more were coming in. It's a good thing I got out of there. My wife was going on and on about how she wanted to rent a new apartment..." The babbling went on against John's will.

Not only was his head pounding from the constant chatting, but now he felt claustrophobic. And a bit fearful. It was...strange.

The doors of the cab crunched together. They slowly pressed inwards, depleting him of oxygen...

His skin paled, and small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. His heart began hammering against his ribs and the shivers began.

The drivers voice returned. "...So you can imagine the amount of fun I had that night." His story came to a halt. "You alright back there, mate?" he asked, concerned. The driver adjusted the mirror above the dashboard and looked back. He frowned.

John nodded his head and simply replied, "Fine. Just fine." He squeezed his eyes shut and his hands rolled into fists. "Perfectly fine" he groaned. '_I'm alright. Completely. Fine' _he thought.

"Uh-huh" the driver responded, doubtful.

He felt bile building it's way upwards. He thumped upon the door with his fist. The driver chuckled.

"You're lucky. We're here." The cabbie pulled in alongside 221b and John scampered out the door in a flash.

He violently spewed the contents of his lunch/breakfast on the ground along with whatever was left and it was quickly washed away by the heavy rain. A few lookers sought him drunk, but John didn't care. He groaned and wiped his face with the napkin from his jacket pocket. Hands shaking, he stuffed it back into his pocket. The strange claustrophobic feeling had subsided but unfortunately exhaustion had taken it's place.

John turned back to face the driver. The cabbie's face was something along the lines of disgust and amusement.

He rolled down the window and finally spoke: "Guess you did need those extra napkins, eh" he shouted. The clamor from the rain nearly drowned his voice out.

John smirked. "Thanks" he yelled back.

"Not a problem." The cabbie sat there in silence, waiting. He gave him a strange look.

"What?"

"Sorry mate, but I do have to make a living somehow."

"Oh!" His brows furrowed. "Of course, sorry. Erm..." He reached for his wallet and quickly pulled out the right amount.

"Sorry about that." John gave him a tip.

"It's alright. I've had worse passengers before." He laughed. "Just last night, there was a man who kept on blathering on about some kind of new drug that would _alter the perspective of science forever_." He greatly exaggerated on his last words. "Something to do with _gene splicing_ and _hybridization_." He shrugged. "That's what he said, anyway. Wouldn't be surprised if the man was _on _drugs himself."

John pretended to laugh along with him. It was still raining, and he was getting soaked.

The driver noticed and finally stopped rambling. "I'll be going then. You get better, alright? Looks like you've got yourself quite a condition there" he joked.

No shit. John held back a frown. "Yeah."

The driver put his foot on the gas pedal and exclaimed, "Catch you later." The cab rolled from the lot and into the street.

John frowned. That had to be one of the worst cab rides he's ever had. Well...other than racing to try and find Sherlock and stop him from jumping off a building. But other than that, yeah, this was close to it. Sighing, his attention turned to the cafe.

At the moment he wasn't hungry. Not anymore, anyway.

The question was...Why would he get car-sick? It never happened to him before, so why would it start now?

He coughed into his sleeve and then it hit him. "Oh." It was the bloody cold. He rolled his eyes.

Sighing, John unlocked the door to the flat and entered. He slowly made his way up the stairs while clutching the rail for support. This blasted illness was really taking it's toll.

He opened the door to the flat, soaking wet, and seated himself on the couch. He groaned. He was truly, and utterly spent.

John closed his eyes for only a moment.


End file.
